


Everything Gold

by Narvaeril (AnnEllspethRaven), Zhie



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnEllspethRaven/pseuds/Narvaeril, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Glorfindel loses something very precious to him, Erestor is a good friend, the twins are suspicious suspects (and should be), Elrond is oblivious, and Thranduil is, of course, the king.Let's be honest -- you came here for the smut.  Thranduil/Glorfindel is right this way, folks.  Come on in.
Relationships: Glorfindel/Thranduil (Tolkien)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34
Collections: Screw Yule 2020





	Everything Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Screw Yule 2020
> 
> 100 points -- using a super prompt and writing over a thousand words
> 
> 75 points -- using one of the titles from the list as your title (also counts for art prompts)
> 
> 100 points -- 2 artists or 2 authors collaborate on a single piece
> 
> 14) Thranduil/Bard the Bowman - OR - Thranduil/anyone other than Bard the Bowman - 100 points x2 because we mention a (dead, sorry) wife
> 
> 2) Erestor/Glorfindel - OR - Erestor/anyone other than Glorfindel (TECHNICALLY, he's not with Glorfindel, so that's a legal move!) - 100 points
> 
> Super Prompt #3 - Secret Passage - 250 points
> 
> Two (or more) characters discover a secret passage. Where is it - where does it lead - and more importantly, how long does it take before they use it as their secret love nest?
> 
> Super Prompt #4 - Games People Play - 200 points
> 
> Your characters engage in playing a risque game that leads to a very interesting evening, or tweak the rules to create a version of a game suitable for adults only. (more a sport than a game, but, who's judging? I'm judging - and I say, yes)
> 
> Super Prompt #8 - Let Me Count the Ways - 300 points
> 
> For writers: Have one character write a love poem to another. Your poem needs to be at least 20 lines long and must be included in the story.  
> For artists: Insert characters into a romantic Shakespearesque scene.
> 
> Total Points: 1325

A loud, obnoxious knocking came upon Erestor’s door far too early in the morning. Granted, he was technically working, and technically available, but not so technically, did not want to be disturbed before noon. He opened the door anyhow and found a slightly worries, slightly perplexed, and very awake Glorfindel on the other side. The light coming in from the window in the hallway made Erestor squint. “What?” he asked less than cordially.

“Have you seen my book of poetry?”

“Am I the keeper of your books?”

“No, but you like books, and you notice things, and I cannot find my book. I was through the house twice, from the Hall of Fire to the stables, and I cannot find it anywhere.”

Erestor looked back at the pile of work on his desk, and then to Glorfindel and sighed. Glorfindel was by far Elrond’s favorite, if one could call it that (and behind his back, Erestor did). It also meant it was ill-advised to simply brush him off. “Here. I’ll come help you look,” Erestor offered. He closed the door behind him. “I suppose you are trying to find it so you can do a few readings later for our esteemed guests,” Erestor said, in reference to the party which had traveled from the realm of Greenwood.

“No. The opposite. I do not want any of them to see my mediocre attempts at art,” Glorfindel said in a hushed voice. “I was going to lock it up in my desk last night and that was when I found it missing.”

“Ah. Well, we should start with your office, then, in case--” Erestor paused as Elladan and Elrohir came racing around the corner, giggling madly. They approached for a few steps, but as soon as Elrohir saw the pair, he halted his brother with his arm. The pair widened their eyes, took a few steps back, and then raced down another corridor. “Well. That was ominous,” remarked Erestor.

Only a few minutes earlier, Elladan and Elrohir had been busy sneaking the book in question into the quarters of a very special guest who had recently arrived at the house. They even bookmarked the page that seemed most important, and left the book in the middle of the bed. “He will not possibly miss it there!” declared Elladan before both boys sneaked out again through a secret passage that led to the room to make their escape. 

Glorfindel broke into fresh waves of unease, though he could not reasonably transfer his agitation onto these elflings. It made no sense that they would be the culprits; Erestor ought to know. Did he not hear regular complaints issuing from their tutors in general and Erestor in particular about the youngsters’ reluctance to consider much anything that was not storytelling of rousing adventure, deeds in battle? They would have about as much use for his poetic compositions as an orc might a yard of lace. No, it could not possibly have to do with the twins; they were up to some other sort of mischief. 

Clearing his throat, he recalled that the Counselor had spoken. “I would appreciate that very much, Erestor. Please pardon my ill-founded accusation. It is only that…” his eyes lowered. “What is in that book is deeply personal to me. Not something I would choose to–”

Erestor’s hand, held up, arrested Glorfindel’ speech. The gesture might have proven horridly brusque were it not for the words that followed. “You do not need to explain, Glorfindel. Once I had similar happen to my private journal and I understand better than you think.”

Nodding, Glorfindel turned aside, eliciting an unseen expression of empathy from Erestor. 

“Come. Together we will find your book.”

Together, they searched the entirety of the house, from every place Glorfindel previously considered to all of the new places Erestor suggested. It was not to be found. The outdoor council arena was a place they had considered, but Elrond was privately meeting with their most esteemed guest that morning, not to be disturbed. “I suppose I can climb up there and see if they are still meeting and make up a reason for my intrusion,” offered Erestor, but Glorfindel shook his head. “Well, we could return after lunch, then,” Erestor suggested.

Glorfindel crossed his arms and rubbed his chin. “I think I shall wait here. I want to thank you for your assistance and patience today,” added Glorfindel.

“Not at all,” replied Erestor, which was not entirely true, however, Glorfindel’s unease had ebbed onto him during the search. “I have nothing particularly pressing this afternoon. If you would like, I can--”

“And I hope you shall join my wife and I for luncheon,” came Elrond’s voice near the top of the stairs. 

Glorfindel held his breath and stood at attention. “They are coming,” he hissed.

“Well, yes, it sounds as if--are you alright?” questioned Erestor as Elrond began to come down the stairway as another voice said, “If it is all the same to you, I should like to retire to my rooms. The journey was grueling and we were attacked twice on the road. Sometimes, a nap is most desirable.”

“I shall have food brought to your quarters, if it would please you,” offered Elrond, who spied the pair at the bottom of the stairway. “Ah, Erestor, anticipating needs as always. Will you see to it that a tray of food is brought to King Thranduil’s quarters for him?” 

“As you wish; it will be my pleasure.” Erestor bowed, slight yet formal. “Your majesty.”

Thranduil gave a nod. “Thank you for the insightful discussion, Lord Elrond. I look forward to speaking with you further on the matters we spoke of earlier.”

“Of course. I know you are acquainted with Erestor, but may I introduce to you Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin,” said Elrond as he and Thranduil came to stand before Glorfindel.

Glorfindel immediately bowed deeply and not only out of regard for protocol. He had felt his cheeks begin to color. “King Thranduil,” he intoned in his rich baritone. “Welcome to Imladris, Your Majesty.” Golden hair tumbled off his shoulders, for his usual morning toilet of restraining his mane into braids had been forsaken in the search for his missing treasure.

“Only Glorfindel--not Lord Glorfindel?” asked Thranduil curiously. 

“We are but humble servants in the House of Master Elrond,” answered Erestor.

“And so are we all, but humble servants of Illuvatar,” said Elrond. “Shall I see you to your quarters?” he asked Thranduil.

“Yes, thank you,” said Thranduil. To the pair at the stairway, he said, “Your pardon,” and went with Elrond back into the house.

Once alone, Erestor asked Glorfindel, “Shall we search the area? I will want to hurry so that I can retrieve food for the King from the kitchens.” Erestor snapped his fingers when Glorfindel did not move, gaze still fixed on where Elrond and Thranduil had gone. “Glorfindel?”

“I am sorry, I–” His reverie broken, he made a decision. “We have searched everywhere, Erestor– everywhere a book could reasonably have been mislaid. I think I need to accept that for reasons I do not understand, someone has  _ taken _ my book; it did not walk off under its own power. My being upset will accomplish nothing further. You have already been more than generous of your time. Please, see to your duties. I should also see to mine. Again, I sincerely thank you.” Glorfindel knew how the words must sound. Ungrateful, dismissive. They were not meant thus, and he prayed something in his tone might convey that to Erestor. Right now he needed to be alone. The sight of Thranduil, so close, had inflamed his spirit and before anyone else could discern it he needed to master himself.

“The kitchens,” realized Erestor, who was not as easily deterred from a task once begun. “We never checked the kitchens. I need to go there anyhow to fetch a meal for Thranduil--you could come along and we could look there, just in case.”

Trapped, Glorfindel acquiesced. “Alright. I agree, that one place is the stone left unturned. Thank you,” he added softly.

To the kitchens they went--once again, nearly crossing paths with the twin boys who resided in Imladris, one of whom actually let out a shriek and pushed the other down a hallway moments after seeing Erestor and Glorfindel. “I wonder if they think we were supposed to have lessons today, and forgot that they were cancelled on account of King Thranduil’s arrival,” mused Erestor as he and Glorfindel continued to the kitchens.

Glorfindel maintained a stony silence, but the phrase sank in.  _ King Thranduil’s arrival....King Thranduil’s arrival…  _ No, that was absurd. And yet...had those two execrable little terrors taken his book to the King? The golden elf’s sapphire eyes blazed in his head as the possibility sank in. Likely his thought was utterly paranoid. Foolish. Idiocy, even– and now there would be no peace until he had proven it untrue. The mere idea sent a spike of heat through his limbs.  _ You slew a demon of Morgoth and you cannot dissemble for half a minute before the object of your fantasy? Or are you no better than the peredhil? _

“Erestor,” Glorfindel spoke, surprised to hear his own voice. “Perhaps I might make recompense to you for your lost time on my account. The book is not here. Allow me please to serve King Thranduil his meal which then frees you to return to your day. Please?” he added at his charming best.

“No need to offer twice,” Erestor said, internally thankful that Glorfindel was willing to take the meal. He almost thought to warn him how talkative King Thranduil could get in private, but it put his escape in jeopardy. “I will look in the kitchens for your book while you take him the meal. If I find it, I shall place it in your office in one of the drawers.”

“Thank you, Erestor.” 

The pair entered the kitchens, and Erestor immediately summoned two junior cooks over with very particular instructions on the types of food to include, what not to place on the tray, and just how much wine needed to be uncorked. All other activity in the kitchens was halted while preparations were made for the food which would be taken to the king--giving Erestor the best cover to begin his search.

Glorfindel smiled, waiting as the cooks placed the final touches on the tray he was to bear. “I shall hope for your success,” he whispered to Erestor as he passed by on his way out.

Moments later, his steps took him toward the royal guest quarters; rooms of special opulence set aside for the more common use of Celebrían’s parents but fit also for rare occasions such as this. His first sight of that face chiseled of living alabaster had slain him with greater ease than his famed foe of Gondolin– yet no else would know. He knocked, with just the correct amount of pressure. “His Majesty’s meal is served,” he spoke clearly, unsure whether the King had retained a valet to his quarters.

“The door is unlocked,” came the strong, clear voice, and Glorfindel trembled before he let himself in. The arrangement of the rooms caught Glorfindel somewhat off-guard; normally, the first room was a gathering space, and the interior was dedicated to the guest’s personal needs. Here, the bed had been swapped with the end tables and chairs normally seen within. Thranduil, the King, was lounging on the bed, and there, in his hands, to Glorfindel’s great dismay, was a small tan leather book with a gold ribbon to mark the pages. “That was quite efficient,” commended Thranduil. His gaze darted up from the book, but it was obvious that he was in the middle of a poem. 

Perhaps THE poem.

Glorfindel swallowed hard. “My pleasure,” he said, his head spinning. While he bantered between confrontation and retreat in his mind, his thoughts were interrupted. 

“That appears far too much food for one person. If you are free for lunch, consider yourself my guest,” said Thranduil smoothly.

The sapphire eyes flared, but only for a moment. “Of course, Your Majesty. It would please me to attend you. I once had a manservant, and believe I could manage.”

“If you wish,” said Thranduil. He turned to the next page in the book and said, “I gave my entourage the day off, considering the unexpectedly tiresome travel we endured. Perhaps another time during my stay you might consider truly being my guest for a meal. I do not wish to take advantage of such a lauded hero as yourself.”

“Majesty, I did not mean– please forgive me if I have offended.” No sooner were the too-honest words past his lips than he colored. That had been an inexcusable blunder. “I place myself at your disposal, however I might please you. You would not be taking advantage; I have left my past behind me. If it is a dining companion you desire, that is what I shall be.”

“You truly know how to serve a king,” said Thranduil quietly, but his words were said with reverence. “You remind me of the courtiers who served my father, in days of old. That is a good thing,” added Thranduil, even with a hint of a smile, sensing Glorfindel’s unease.

“Majesty,” Glorfindel bowed, feeling that he somehow may have salvaged a nearly disastrous situation.

“Come. Let us eat.” Thranduil tucked the small book into the folds of his robes, into some hidden pocket, and directed Glorfindel to the inner rooms, where a table and chairs were arranged beside an open window which let in the spring air. There they dined, and exchanged pleasant conversation outside the realm of politics. When they were finished with the meal and into the second bottle of wine, the book was produced. “It seems someone left me some light reading to consider during my visit,” said Thranduil. “Two someones, in fact--Elrond’s sons seem to know the location of the secret way to the room, and they thought to come visit before my meeting and delivered this to me. The author should be proud, but then, I am biased regarding...accolades about myself. My eyes are tired from the journey; perhaps, one final request, if it be not too much. Would you indulge me in the reading of the poem that is marked? I began it just as you arrived, and would very much like to hear it before I take rest.”

Glorfindel stared at the Elven-king. He could not rise without making a visible spectacle of adjusting his clothing, for his proximity and the sudden emotional vulnerability had stiffened him. He already knew which poem was marked. This was his worst nightmare, and there might be some crying elflings later on. Or at the very least, elflings filled with regret. “Anything you ask, Sire.” He cursed the slight tremor that had escaped his voice on the wings of the very last word.

Thranduil held the book out to Glorfindel. “You have my sincerest thanks.”

“Majesty,” Glorfindel reiterated, staring at the verses he so well knew. Swallowing hard, he allowed the familiar words to flow over his tongue as they had so many times before. He had no need of the book; the verses were a part of him. Perhaps that explained his carelessness, when after the very first stanza his eyes wandered off the page and he enunciated with the tender caress of the poet’s craft: 

_ Let the harpers solemnly sing _

_ The accolades of the Elven-king _

_ Upon his throne, his hand is firm _

_ His brow is heavy, his countenance stern _

_ Golden his hair and ashen his eyes _

_ He speaks with tongue both crafty and wise _

_ Battle-ready and battle-weary _

_ For this warrior king guards a forest dreary _

_ His might is great, his voice is clear _

_ Misguided travelers oft cower in fear _

_ Fierce he is, but kindly, and just _

_ Long does it take to earn his trust _

_ No greater king in Middle-earth doth dwell _

_ Not since Gil-Galad the Valiant fell _

_ For now he stays in Greenwood far away _

_ Perhaps forever tis where he shall stay _

_ But something should be said for the master _

_ Whose watchfulness protects his land from disaster _

_ So hark! Now the harpers boisterous sing! _

_ The accolades of the Elven-king _

  
  


For a moment Glorfindel’s face held yearning then with a brief shake of his head he subsumed his thought, wholly unaware of his unveiled regard during the metered recitation. In both his lives, the golden elf had owned little gift for artifice. “A fitting tribute, Aran Thranduil,” Glorfindel offered, for he had to pretend somehow that all this was foreign to him.

“I thought so as well. You have done a great service to read this to me, Glorfindel. Or, Laurefindelë, was it, in times of old? Forgive me; my Quenya is not very good,” said the king.

The name caught him as a blow. No one in his second life had ever called him that. Not even when re-embodied and taken to Nienna’s service did the Lady speak it. Perhaps somehow they all had known. His name on the wings of screams; the last elven speech he heard as he fell to his death. “Yes, Sire, it was. I have not heard it spoken in...a very long time.” Glorfindel paused. It sounded different, in Thranduil’s rich voice. “It is good to hear it – from you.”

Thranduil gave a single nod and reclaimed the book before Glorfindel had the forethought to figure out a way to leave with it in his possession. “Then I thank you again, Laurefindelë, and I look forward to dining with you again before my visit comes to an end. I am tired, and you undoubtedly have duties to see to. Until next we meet.”

“Sire,” Glorfindel inclined his head. As he rose he turned his body away, forcefully tugging his tunic lower in order to have some means to clear their meal and withdraw from the room gracefully. He ignored the slight tremor in his hand as he returned the remains of their repast to the tray. 

Glorfindel deemed himself useless for the remainder of the day. Normally he joined others in the Hall of Fire for evening merriment, but stayed in his quarters. He considered far too late that it might have been possible for him to use the secret passage to Thranduil’s rooms to retrieve the book when it was very likely that the King had spent his evening listening to the minstrels with Elrond. Cursing his luck, Glorfindel attempted to go to bed early, but sleep eluded him. As morning was announced by the light peeking through the windows, a stately knock came upon his door. Erestor, perhaps, with no word about the book. Glorfindel donned a robe of green velvet with ivory trim. His hair was still loose, though unruly now--but Erestor had seen him worse than this. “I know where it is,” he began as he unlocked the door, but he stopped speaking when he saw Thranduil at his door.

“Sorry--what was that?” questioned the king. His hands were behind his back.

“Aran Thranduil!” Glorfindel colored, lowering his head. “Pardon my appearance, Sire. Enter if you wish, though I regret my rooms are in worse disarray than their occupant.” Stepping aside, he made room for the king to pass should he choose.

“No need for that at the moment. I am on my way to meet with Lord Elrond, but I found that I very much enjoyed lunch yesterday. I wished to know if you were free once again to join me.”

“I am, Sire. I am at your disposal; Lord Elrond would not wish it otherwise. You need only summon me, and inform me if I may be of service in any other manner.” Glorfindel had no awareness that his robe had fallen open when he bowed, revealing part of his sculpted chest.

“That is so very generous of you,” Thranduil said as his gaze drifted downward to where the fabric had parted. “I have but one other matter which I hope you might assist me with.” From behind his back, Thranduil brought forth the little book. “I finished all of the poems last night, and I wished to return this back to the owner with my heartfelt thanks.” He stared down at it for several moments, and then, looking up, held it out to Glorfindel.

Rendered speechless, Glorfindel stared helplessly. There had been more than one intensely private sentiment, penned on these pages. He knew his cheeks colored. There was nothing to be done. “Sire,” the golden elf said at nearly a whisper, accepting it. To say more would be to say too much.

“I hope you will not think me too bold. I found a few empty pages at the end and I penned a few lines of my own,” said Thranduil softly. “I found your words most refreshing, Laurefindelë. I look forward to seeing you for lunch.”

“Aran Thranduil.” His eyes raised, Glorfindel unaware of the vulnerability of his gaze. “I shall bring our meal. Enjoy your day, Sire.”

Thranduil merely closed his eyes, and then stepped back as he opened them and traversed the hallway. Glorfindel scrambled back into his quarters, gripping the book to his chest. Reminded of the promise of a response in the book for him, he opened the book and sought out the final pages. 

  
  


_ The minstrels versed in somber chord, Sad fate of the most beloved Lord. _

_ In Gondolin fair he once did dwell, secreted in their fortress-dell. _

_ Praised by all and cherished much the Golden Warrior ruled as such; _

_ Not as king of power and might but gentle touch and love’s bright light. _

_ For his gilded House maid and child yearned; innocence and frailty he honor’d unspurned. _

_ His voice rang fair though peaceful command; strength so gentled governed his hand. _

_ Bright shone his sword and polished greaves, wrought all about with cloisonn’d leaves, the lone celadine o’er his heart surrounding and thus his name declared unbounding: Laurefindelë the Golden Flower was he, and ever would remain. _

_ Ever-blessed Lord reborn; no longer need the harpers mourn. To his ancient liege he yet doth cling, Calacirya’s glory finer than golden ring.  _

_ Behold! White gems and silver cannot eclipse aureate splendor, nor quench desire for that resplendent hue. Not all treasure may a King possess, least that fairest brilliance in blessed Imladris true. _

Scanning with unbelieving eyes, Glorfindel thrice read the lines thrice he could uproot himself from where he stood near his bed. All of it gratified, but the last verses set him aflame.  _ It cannot be… and yet what else am I to make of it? Ah, Glorfindel! What will you do? _

\---

As the noon bell rang, Glorfindel arrived at the door to Thranduil’s quarters with a tray of food upon a serving cart. His entire morning was spent readying himself for his meeting with the king. He would not be caught a third time in disarray. His hair was washed, brushed, and braided. He had exfoliated every inch of his body, scrubbed under his nails, and even sparingly applied fragrance.  _ I am overthinking it, _ he scolded himself as he waited for the door to open after a firm knock on the wood.

As expected, Thranduil opened the door and was alone. “How very good to see you again,” he greeted warmly. “Please; the cart can be taken to the room where we dined yesterday.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” Glorfindel took the cart to the table and transferred all of the items from the tray. His hands only trembled a little, and when he was finished, he turned back to ask if all was satisfactory. It surprised him to see Thranduil so close. “Is this...is this to your liking?” he stammered.

“It is,” replied Thranduil, though his gaze never left Glorfindel. A moment later, Thranduil reached out, grabbed hold of the loose end of Glorfindel’s sash, and pulled him into a demanding kiss that caused both to gasp for air at the end. “Is this to your liking?” he asked in a low voice.

“It is,” Glorfindel answered, his voice husky with want. “I did not dare presume, Majesty. Not all treasure can be taken, but it can be possessed if freely given.”

“You are a great and precious treasure, Laurefindelë. It would indeed be a great honor to possess you,” Thranduil spoke between bites and rough kisses along Glorfindel’s neck. “I did not dare presume, either, but I hazard to say we are of one mind regarding out desires.”

“Then, Majesty, there is only before lunch, after lunch, or am I to  _ be _ lunch? I live to serve,” Glorfindel smiled, much bolder in the face of encouragement.

“Is the food hot?” Only now did Thranduil spare a glance at the table. “Both hungers must be sated, and I am a man of practicality. If lunch will not spoil, then I would prefer we adjourn lunch in favor of the bedroom.”

“The meal is bread, sliced meats, cheeses and fruits, with a soup so scalding hot I daresay that in a half-hour it might be safe for consumption,” Glorfindel smiled. “Lead me, and tell me of your desire. Or show me, Majesty. I take orders well. Though,” he added quietly, “I am no veteran of the arts of love. I have waited for one I deemed worthy of my surrender, and I have found him.”

This new information obviously surprised Thranduil, but did nothing to temper his passion. “To the bed,” he ordered. He pulled Glorfindel close once more, his tongue delving deep into Glorfindel’s mouth while his hands kneaded twin globes of flesh. He gave Glorfindel’s backside a firm smack and nipped his earlobe before moving back to the room with the bed.

Wordlessly the dazzling beauty complied, no longer caring that his arousal was on obvious display through his clothing. He responded to every sinuous manipulation of Thranduil’s guidance as a practiced dancer, bending gracefully or adjusting his body at the slightest pressure. Perfect, willing and utterly tantalizing obedience.

It was obvious that Thranduil has expected this outcome. A bottle of high quality oil, until now unnoticed by Glorfindel, was on the nightstand beside the bed. When the coverlet was turned down, there were gold and white rose petals spread over the sheets. Clothing could have been hastily deposited on the floor, but Glorfindel showed reverence for the finely woven fabric that snugly fit the king’s body. He folded everything with care, and they kissed between the shedding of each layer. Once naked, Thranduil guided Glorfindel until they were both lying in bed, all the while marking his fair skin with nips and bites.

The Guardian of Imladris had not known this degree of luxury since the Elder Days, and found his mind taken away to satin coverlets and perfumed flowers that would be kept to bloom in pots at the window for their sweet scent. His rooms in Gondolin were opulent, comfortable...and solitary. That was no burden, he had the love of many and his love and care of his people was no less in return. But it was not this. For this he hungered, and wished to be devoured. From what he guessed of Thranduil...what might he most want? The Woodland King was a renowned hunter, so perhaps a more challenging quarry?

Unexpectedly, Glorfindel pounced, pinning the Elven-king to the mattress, biting deeply into the flesh of his shoulder. Every muscle tensed for what he felt sure would be an inevitable response.

Thranduil closed his eyes and tilted his head back, lips parted slightly. “Yes...you have yearned for this, have you not? Do not hold back your desires, Laurefindelë. I am of the forest, and even though a king, we are wild and fierce in many things.” He opened his eyes and gave a feral growl in the back of his throat.

Later Glorfindel would not understand why he did this in response to the words but he sank his teeth again just above one of the collarbones and worried at the skin between his teeth, before assaulting the perfect mouth with far greater restraint. He would not be so boorish as to visibly mark the King as though he were some kind of chattel, but that gentler kiss did not feed his hunger. He settled instead for tracing kisses down the creamy throat, still pinning Thranduil’s crossed wrists over his head.

“And so the hunter becomes the prey,” drawled Thranduil, unable to return the rough affections. He flexed his fingers, testing what mobility he had at the moment. He and Glorfindel were matched physically, though Thranduil was a little taller. He seemed content to allow Glorfindel time to play, and lifted a leg to rub against Glorfindel’s thigh.

Lips and tongue continued to explore, each sensation something new. The rosy nipple that turned pebble-hard under his attentions, the appreciative moans from kisses and licks in the hollow of his throat, the navel, the ghosting touches of Glorfindel’s free hand. Expecting immediate resistance that did not come, he felt confused, uncertain. He did not believe Thranduil truly was prey, any more than a sleeping lion constituted vanquished quarry. Still the novelty lit his senses afire; his initiation into what he knew others enjoyed but had never partaken. “Not so, Sire,” Glorfindel murmured absently, becoming careless in his grip. He reminded himself to hold those wrists tightly, lest he lose his unhindered access to all these wonders.

Thranduil teasingly spread his legs further apart, allowing him to align his erection with Glorfindel’s. He rocked his body, creating friction between them. “Who said I was the hunter?” he asked, and a moment later, flipped their positions, with Glorfindel’s arms pinned skillfully behind his back. “For someone who is a novice, you are certainly giving it your all.” Thranduil grazed his teeth along Glorfindel’s shoulder, and then bit and sucked across Glorfindel’s chest, though his techniques were not as gentle as those employed by Glorfindel. Marks were left with abandon, bruises that would be a reminder in the morning.

“Not one to...go down without some resistance at least,” he smiled, his breath already stolen away by rising lust. “Just in case I have a reputation to maintain.” He tested the restraint upon him in a brief explosion of brute force meant to break the hold and found he could not succeed. His effort gained him nothing and that was just as well; he wanted this. To be dominated, consumed. There was a reason he had waited; he had long yearned for Thranduil. He also came to believe that few others would subdue him in this manner he most desired.

“There is no need to concern yourself with such things,” Thranduil assured. “I promise you that nothing shall leave this room. Unless of course, you wish it to be known that you are in the favor of the king?” Thranduil lifted a brow as his fingertips danced over Glorfindel’s bare skin.

“Gold is offered to you willingly,” Glorfindel writhed under the touches soft as breezes. “Whether the king chooses to display his prize or keep it hidden is His Majesty’s choice, in which I would not dream interfere.” They both enjoyed poetry, so what was a little more?

“I would have granted you anonymity, but my desire is to possess you and to have others know you are given my favor,” said Thranduil. “So be it. All shall know.” Again, Thranduil decorated Glorfindel’s flesh with rosy marks of desire and swirling lines where his nails scraped along Glorfindel’s skin, first white, then pink. “You are a great deal more beautiful in person. Not a single song nor tale have I heard that does you justice. You must make Arien jealous.”

“Perhaps,” Glorfindel intoned, trying to mask the emotion and sensation Thranduil’s artful ascendancy elicited. Once more he sought to break the hold on his arms, thrilled at his failure. “Yet Arien is not here. Only a king tall and proud, mastering a Lord of ancient Gondolin. Would that you had been at my side, Sire. Yet you are here now.”

“And how.” Thranduil traced a finger along Glorfindel’s cheek. “Are you much for sport, Laurefindelë?”

“Sword fighting, hand-to-hand combat in the days of yore. A laugh escaped him like the dust of gems, sparkling in the air. “Lord Rog’s notion of ‘Commencement’ was a requirement to subdue me.”

“And did many pass scrutiny?” Thranduil inquired, brows arched.

“Yes and no. Mostly he wished to see their attempts to try. Only three ever succeeded. King Turgon, and Lords Rog and Ecthelion. I gave my best,” he smiled, that cherubic face brimming with innocence and mischief intermingled.

“I find wrestling invigorating, but most refuse to give their all as an opponent of mine. It is common knowledge not to bet against me within my realm, not for the fact I am strongest of body, but of the fact none will dare attempt to win against me.” Thranduil placed his hands upon Glorfindel’s shoulders, which pressed Glorfindel’s back firmly upon the mattress and caused him less mobility, if that were possible. “It is not that I do not have a desire to win, but I wish to win fairly.” Lowering his head and his guard slightly, Thranduil whispered against Glorfindel’s ear, “You excite me.”

“Your Majesty has me well and truly pinned,” Glorfindel smirked, unable to forego the double entendre. “I have attempted twice to break your hold and did not succeed – yet I did not resist you with all of my body. Is it the King’s desire that I try?”

“I know you have twice tried,” said Thranduil with a smirk. “Once more, and I shall have bested you, and shall claim victory.” Thranduil gave Glorfindel a challenging look.

“Very well.” Thranduil did not expect the warrior to close his eyes, nor relax fully under his hand. Deep breaths were drawn in and expelled in a rush, as his lips mouthed some ancient recital that only Glorfindel knew. Out of nowhere the former Gondolindhrim’s spine curved with a mighty surge; both powerful legs twisting away from Thranduil. The bed was beneath him, the King above him, the King beside him, so there remained only one option that would not amount to physical assault. The sinews strained harder yet, for he felt Thranduil’s hold slip...only to re-establish itself, with greater force than before. Stunned, a little, this genuinely surprised Glorfindel who was not accustomed to being bested when all his bodily power was brought to bear. He also knew when it was over, and the tension departed. His eyes sought out the victor. “Please do not think I mean this as any manner of disparagement, Majesty...but I truly believed I would win.”

“So did I,” admitted Thranduil. He sat back so as to allow Glorfindel leave to sit up. With his right hand, he tested the mattress. “Too soft,” he remarked. With the agility and grace only the Elves could possess at Thranduil’s age, he removed himself from the bed and went to the rug that covered part of the floor. It was large and round, blue and green, depicting land and sea. “Here,” he decreed, and motioned with his hand for Glorfindel to join him. “Come.” Thranduil crouched slightly in the typical starter position for wrestling matches.

Eyes narrowing at the challenge, Glorfindel mirrored his stance. To external appearances, the golden-haired elf wore more muscle; Thranduil more lean and sinuous grace. They were in all other respects fairly partnered. Fully focused, Glorfindel waited, unheeding of his partial erection.

In comparison to Glorfindel, Thranduil was fully erect. It did nothing to hinder him as he counted off their round. The initial grapple was basic--both kept the other at bay as they gripped each other’s shoulders. Thranduil made the first move, one unseen initially. He slid a hand behind Glorfindel’s neck in an attempt to twist him around. Glorfindel’s back pressed against Thranduil’s chest only momentarily as he assessed the situation, and dropped one knee down, careful not to let it hit the ground to give Thranduil a point. Glorfindel smirked as he managed to get his arms around Thranduil’s torso and nearly pulled him to the ground. Thranduil grunted but recovered--and so it continued, each proving a worthy opponent to the other.

The longer the match, the louder the sounds that came from Thranduil. At first, it seemed he was becoming winded and struggled with the maneuvers, but Glorfindel became wise to his true intentions when it was obvious Thranduil groaned only when his lips were close to Glorfindel’s ear, or gasped when sweaty palms ran over a firm thigh. “I must be sure to replenish the oil, and more to spare, for when we next compete,” said Thranduil, for official matches of this nature required the participants to have their bodies oiled (though in Elven society, complete lack of clothing would have been seen as far too unseemly).

“How does a King cope with defeat, Majesty?” He guessed (and prayed he was correct) that just as being subdued thrilled and inflamed his desire, Thranduil’s furnace grew hotter with resistance, challenge. That he wanted to dominate as badly as Glorfindel wished to be dominated. No, he would not lose  _ unfairly _ for that would be dishonestly. But lose he would, and his loins hardened at the thought. He felt his arousal rub against the King’s belly amidst their struggle and thought it might drive him mad with need.

“Best me and find out,” teased Thranduil. His breath came a little faster than Glorfindel’s, for while Glorfindel was like a lion, able to mount a long-drawn attack, Thranduil was like a cheetah, dangerous and swift in short bursts, yet lacking full stamina for a lengthy duel.

In a move requiring much of his remaining strength, Glorfindel wrested Thranduil off his feet, the pair of them falling hard to the rug. Leveraging his weight against the strength of the King’s quadriceps, he kept his center of gravity low and distal with the result that his erection now prodded at some very intimate places very near to Thranduil’s entrance. The rest of his torso pinned his opponent’s abdomen underneath, and powerful hands gripped wrists in an iron lock against his body. Both to provoke and because the head of his penis screamed for the contact, he thrust once into the cleft of Thranduil’s buttocks and moaned his sweet reward. A heavy sac rested atop his arousal and the soft skin drew heat like the strike of a match.

Thranduil closed his eyes and parted his lips, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He was harder than he had been earlier, and could feel a pulsing within him. “You could take me, right here,” he whispered. “You have me at your mercy. But you and I have our desires, and this will not cause our need to subside.” Thranduil breathed in slowly a few times and savored the feelings of lust and defeat intermingled. “Get on the bed,” he said, voice low and commanding once more.

Trembling as he obediently moved off the King’s person, a half-crawl half-walk brought him to the bed. Unsure what exactly must happen yet knowing a few salient facts, he went on all fours at something of an angle to the edge of the mattress. Thus, he envisioned, he could be moved into a variety of configurations at Thranduil’s pleasure. His elbows bent until his forearms and hands contacted the coverlet and the golden hair spread in a curtain when the fair face rested between his forearms. On the bed, he at last responded to the command: “Yes, your Majesty.”

The king stood back up as he watched Glorfindel display himself so unquestioningly before him. Thranduil walked to the bed and gently stroked Glorfindel’s head a few times before he manipulated Glorfindel to rest on his back. A pillow was taken from the opposite side of the bed and used under Glorfindel’s hips to angle his body slightly, but just enough. Thranduil stooped down and kissed Glorfindel full on the lips. “I beg you one final favor before we seek pleasure together,” said Thranduil. “I would have you call me by my name. No one does anymore. You must be aware that my parents and wife were all slain. Everyone calls me ‘your Majesty’. In this bed, I would have you know me by my name.”

Glorfindel’s eyes flickered with the pain of that kind of loss. The House of Finwë had known much of it. Too much. “I did not know about your mother, Thranduil, and I am deeply sorry. In your bed you shall be king of my heart, but I shall name you as you ask, my  _ vigorous spring _ .” A tender palm caressed his soon-to-be lover’s cheek.

“Tragedies to discuss another time,” Thranduil said as he reached for the strategically placed bottle. “This is the finest to be found in Middle-earth,” he commented as he twisted the stopper from the bottle. “It soothes and warms and relaxes--I shall seek now to ease what discomfort might be found. I pray you shall find it stimulating.” Further discussion seemed unnecessary, and Thranduil began to prepare Glorfindel for delights to come.

“I expected pain,” Glorfindel said, extremely preoccupied with the strange and enjoyable sensations in his body. Something had to be going well; he lay there turgid with desire, the clear fluid of anticipation leaking generously from the arousal throbbing in time to his heartbeat. “With some pleasure to follow. I did not know about this.” His voice lowered, taking on a cast of shyness. Guileless, curious, he asked more. “What is it meant to be like? Rough? Tender? Something else? Is there...love?” The blue eyes averted. “I do not expect reciprocity but...I have loved you from afar for a long time. Something about how you held yourself reminded me of…” He shook his head. “Another thing best saved for later.”

Thranduil paused in his preparation, but continued to touch Glorfindel with hands both smooth from the lotions used on them by his attendants and rough from too many battles. “To know my answer is to know my business. I journeyed from Greenwood with intention to continue to the Havens. I have been weary these last few years; my son is of age and capable. Being king has taken an unexpected toll. On my way, I naturally came to Lothlorien, and there abided a time. The Lady beckoned me come to her sanctuary, and there in her mirror I saw many things. The past, the present, and perhaps the future, as she told me.” Thranduil licked his lips, gaze upon the wall. “I saw waterfalls. I saw Imladris. I saw you.” Now Thranduil looked Glorfindel in the eyes and waited. “I cannot answer the questions you have asked, but I know until yesterday, I no longer felt I had a future here in Middle-earth. Now, mayhaps I do.”

An involuntary gasp escaped Glorfindel’s chest, a stab of yearning not only for passion but for wholeness. “I need you. I have always needed you, Thranduil. I had no mirror save the stirrings of my heart. When I came here today, to this room, I knew that my time in Imladris might finally have come to its end. For if you were offering what I hoped...I do not give myself as an ornament, a shiny bauble. I am prepared to pledge myself to you in all ways, may Lord Elrond forgive me. That is, if you would grant me the honor. I know I will be no one else’s. This is fated.”

“Further discussion for another time, for the future– near future, to be sure.” Thranduil oiled his fingers again and eased them inside, satisfied with his findings. “We both have powerful needs to be fulfilled.” Hand still slick, Thranduil oiled his hard length before he joined Glorfindel on the bed, straddled him, and rubbed the tip of his erection against the puckered entrance. One by one, Thranduil lifted Glorfindel’s legs to rest them over his shoulders. “Breathe deep. It will aid you.” Doing as he was told without question, Glorfindel took in air, and Thranduil slid halfway in before he gripped Thranduil’s hips and waited.

The golden head tossed back at the initial intrusion, but did not remain thus. Glorfindel forced himself to meet Thranduil’s eyes as he surrendered. Impossibly full, his body fought to accommodate his partner until by chance he pushed outward during one of his inhalations, pushed against the penetration. It helped, and he knew then he would manage. The Elven-king was generously sized, and fingers were not going to assuage the protestations of his entrance. It burned.  _ Yet sometimes burning is a worthy sacrifice _ , the golden elf believed. He suppressed the sensation, refused to pay it heed. He had given all of himself and burned once before and by comparison this was nothing. “Take me, Thranduil,” Glorfindel provoked. “When have you ever hesitated to grasp what is rightfully yours?”

“And you are mine now.” It was a heartfelt declaration, but made in the solemn tone that left no doubts of his royal lineage. Thranduil rolled his hips a few times to gain momentum, but he soon was thrusting at a furious pace. The headboard hit the wall, over and over again, in time to the sound of Thranduil’s grunts. Closing his eyes, Thranduil’s pace increased. “And I am yours,” he said, much softer.

Tears pooled in Glorfindel’s eyes and he did not try to hide it when they fell. Those words were more than anything he wished to hear or ever expected to. More than the bewildering sensations inside of him, the promise speared his loins with further desire. He felt uncertain, thus far, whether he was meant to find pleasure beyond the knowledge of his submission. If this was all, it was enough– for it was wild and exciting, and clearly Thranduil was experiencing passionate enjoyment. That his body could provide such a gift to a worthy lover gratified to no end – he could call him that now, for the king had embedded himself to the root. “I love you.”

Every muscle halted movement. Thranduil stared down, his expression making it evident that he was caught off-guard. His voice was barely audible. “Say it again.”

The second time was easier, but more nerve wracking. Surely, Thranduil heard what he said. Surely, there was no mistake in intent. Was it because it displeased Thranduil? Glorfindel swallowed to be sure his voice was clear. “I love you.”

A burst of energy from Thranduil meant he rutted at a grueling pace, and poured an incredible amount of emotion into the last minutes of lovemaking. He reached between them, determined not only to receive pleasure, but to give it fully to Glorfindel in return. 

The first touch to his neglected member (which up to now had bobbed against his belly, teasing but never satisfying) electrified. “Oh! I…” under the gentler touches, he now felt a stimulation from within, an ascending pleasure from a place of sensitivity that the slower and gentler motions of Thranduil’s hips summoned forth. “Please love, oh what are you doing, I am afire!” Glorfindel reached to loosely hold what of Thranduil he could reach. Relentlessly the length buried within his core demanded that greater pleasures erupt from within him. The touches came faster, those hands seemed everywhere; tormenting his arousal with sweet strokes or a firm hand that kneaded at his loins, caressed him with tender sweeps of the fingertips. “I did not know!” Glorfindel cried out his surprise as his lover’s passion coaxed a crescendo of trembling and pleasure until he begged. “Please! What you give me, what–” Eyes transfixed, he shouted so that no nearby person could have avoided hearing: “Thranduil!” Pearls of seed rained amidst rapture. 

Thranduil had given, and he fell forward into his lover’s arms while he shuddered his release deep inside. A demanding kiss was pressed upon Glorfindel, to which he sweetly yielded. An instrument in his hands, responsive to his every whim

Their climax was mutual, and when Thranduil slipped from Glorfindel’s spent body, he pulled his lover to him. White and gold petals clung to their skin, and Thranduil kissed Glorfindel’s brow before he nuzzled his neck and whispered against damp skin, “I love you.”

“I relinquished my body and you return it to me fallen through the fire of bliss,” Glorfindel spoke, more tears trickling. “I did not know there was anything beyond the pleasure of submission and then what you gave me…” A tremor ran through him. It was difficult to find words until he realized he was trying in the wrong manner. “In my dreams I have burned. Dragged down always into pitiless dark through a doorway of fire. You pierced my flesh with the point of your knife, plunging deep. From that wound you drew light and belonging. My sacrifice of pain you transmuted to ecstasy for you are a generous king. I am lifted from the terrors of my past; upon my brow you set the fairest adamant of your kiss. Your pledge. Thank you.”

“Ever my pleasure,” replied Thranduil. He reached for the drawer of the nightstand and from within extracted clean cloths with which to clean them both. “Your poetry improves,” he commended as he wiped away the evidence of their desire. “I fear the soup may be cold,” he said as he brought the blanket up to cover them both and gathered Glorfindel close to his body.

“I find I care not, if the soup is not hot. That soup in the pot. For me you have caught? At least, I thought.” Glorfindel burst into laughter at his own silliness. “Thranduil.”

Lazily, Thranduil rubbed his right hand in circles on Glorfindel’s back. “The last time I heard that name, it was from the lips of my wife. We were battling the enemy; my father was impatient. He would not listen to the council of Gil-Galad’s herald and we went into battle ill-prepared. It was a dark day. Many titles I lost that day--son… husband… prince. King and widower are grave substitutes for the identity I had. She was screaming to me, warning me of the turn of the tide, for the enemy had us on all sides. I had my choice--fight my way to her, or fight my way to our son. He insisted he should come to war. It was in my heart to protect him first, and she called out for me to do so. I do not regret that decision, but it makes the outcome no easier to bear.”

“I will do everything I can to ease your burden. You have my deepest sorrow, Thranduil. I will say your name as often as you will permit me, for it is one means by which to show that I love you and honor your needs. If talking helps, I am ready to listen. I am going to care for you,” Glorfindel promised. “In all ways.”

After a lingering moment, more words came. “I want to know about your wife. I want to hear about your love for her because though marriage is for those that live, she is a part of you. I want you to know I honor her for the love you shared. I do not believe Fate chose me to supplant your love but to help you find it renewed.”

“She was a very practical woman. I believe if she were here, she would tell me I could only tell you her tale after we sat down for our meal,” said Thranduil.

Glorfindel sat up, drawing his lover with him. “One meal to begin one life?” he asked, moving a lock of the flaxen hair aside.

“She would approve.” 

They took their time dining and exchanging tales of days of old. They considered future plans just how much to share with others in both realms. They agreed to meet again that night, and when they did, it was a sight. Together they did conspire, and walked arm in arm to the Hall of Fire. In an alcove they cuddled like love-struck fools, Glorfindel bedazzling in Thranduil’s jewels. None dared ask specifics of what happened thereof, for everyone could tell that they were in love. 


End file.
